


Tango

by WhimsicalMayhem



Category: Battleborn (Video Game)
Genre: 'N stuff, And Rath!, F/M, Just loving the bomb man, Romance, now with Toby!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7224853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalMayhem/pseuds/WhimsicalMayhem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was grace and beauty and decorum.</p><p>Him? </p><p>Well, he didn’t dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rogues

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Yeah I just really love this pairing and starting writing for them! I figured it would be too long for a oneshot, so I broke it up into shorter chapter that I'm planing on posting en- mass.
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoy!

When Ghalt had said he had gotten the Rogues to join their cause, Deande hadn’t known what to expect. She knew Reyna - or knew of Reyna. The woman had a reputation that any good spymistress just couldn’t ignore. ‘The Valkyrie’ was sure to be an interesting ally in their struggle against the darkness.

As it turned out, Reyna was possibly the most normal of all the Rogues Deande would be working with.

Orendi was of a race only referenced to in footnotes. A lesser known planet with a half formed culture that was sucked up by the war before it had time to even discover industry. The Varimorphs could apparently, with time, change their physiology. They could grow extra limbs, eyes, orifices, even add artificial addition to themselves, like knives or magnets.

Or, in Orendi’s case, high fire power and extremely lethal weaponry. 

The woman - Deande assumed she was of age, but really had no way to be certain - had four limbs, each with a laser turret embedded within the palm (she didn’t know whether it was for aesthetics or functionality, but Orendi made the turret’s look like eyes. Which was strange, since she was fairly certain the Varimorph couldn’t actually see out of them...right?) If the the rapid fire of eye lasers wasn’t enough, Orendi also had access to some form of mystic power (Magic with a ‘k’ the varimorph had called it) which swathed enemies on the battlefield with dark flames. 

Orendi was also certifiably mentally unstable. Her actions on the battlefield could best be described as nothing more than sadistic and chaotic, as she left death and destruction in her wake while laughing maniacally and sobbing uncontrollably. 

Toby was an Aviant, much like Benedict, except that he was a penguin and he could probably fit in the Peackeeper’s boot. Rejected by the UPR for well...’being too cute’ Toby created a death machine and hitched in with the Rogues. ‘The ‘Berg’ as he liked to call it, was equipped with all the latest in UPR killing technology, including mines, railguns, lasers, and force fields. Toby was an engineer to be reckoned with, apparently.

Deande had highlighted Ghalt’s warning not to call him cute, or any variant of.

Shayne and Aurox were...were...

Well, Deande didn’t know what a sixteen year old girl was doing with an omnidimetional horror attached at her waist. She didn’t know what said girl had done to bind Aurox to her. They seemed to have a strained relationship at best, so Deande’s first guess was that Aurox wasn’t exactly willing to the companionship. Either way, they were effective on the battlefield - with Shayne’s backstreet knowledge of how to wield a weapon and Aurox’s cosmic powers, they were truly a force to be reckoned with.

Lastly, but surely not least, there was Whiskey Foxtrot.

Deande had stared at his name for a while before opening the file Ghalt had sent her. It just seemed so...peculiar. She supposed that was a bit hypocritical of her. He was a defective Mike clone - the last of his eradicated batch, apparently. That was impressive in and of itself. The man had lived longer than most clones could claim - Oscar Mike included. He was a survivor, and Whiskey had the proper bloodthirsty skill set to back it up.

Intriguing.

Deande would have to go out and give them all a proper greeting - Ghalt had said that they should be getting their quarters ready within Nova soon. Maybe she would track them down then. 

Closing her holoscreen and stepping out of stealth, Deande shoved the blade of her war fan into the skull of a meandering Varelsi. 

“Point B is secure, Thorn. Have you and Montana taken care of point A?”

There was a burst of static, then a deep voice came on that most definitely wasn’t Thorn’s.

“Uh...Point A is secure, D. Thorn’s a bit...busy at the moment.” Montana stated. Deande raised an eyebrow.

“Busy?” she queried.

“Yeah. She’s putting the Vareli corpses on pikes.”

Deande sighed.

“Well, tell her when she is done to meet me and Rath back at the transport. The Rogues are coming in today and I want to meet them.”

“Will do D. See you soon.”

With a flick of her fan, the Spymistress disappeared.


	2. First Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trash. I'm such trash.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!

First meetings had gone as well as she could have hoped. The Rogues were generally likeable, once you got used to them. Unlike the other factions, they were all encompassing - they couldn’t afford to scoff at the different and beaten down like the other factions could. It gave them less of the feeling of a hierarchy, and more the feeling of a family.

It was something that Deande hoped could leak into the Battleborn. After all, most of them had left their former faction to fight for this cause. They weren’t so much different than the Rogues themselves. 

Reyna was casual. She acted like they had been good friends for years, greeting wholesomely, with lot of reassuring touching and jokes. Toby was painfully polite, making sure to thank her for inviting them and standing straight at attention the entire time. Shayne got off with the typical teenage greeting of ‘sup’ and a firm handshake. Orendi was erratic, but overall pleased to meet someone new.

Whiskey Foxtrot was the outlier, and Deande knew he would be before she even got to where he was at the back of the group. She was no stranger to war hardened men, but Whiskey...well, he was something else.

Whiskey Foxtrot stood at a more casual attention than Toby. Straight backed, but holding his shambled weapon over his shoulder in a relaxed way. He was shirtless, showing off a muscle bound, barrel chest and thick arms. His skin was a dark indigo, with rugged lines of gills working over his ribs and neck. His remaining attire was obviously old Mike gear - refitted and worked over as it was, Deande could still point out the similarities to Oscar Mike’s armor, the helm being the biggest telltale sign. Only Whiskey Foxtrot’s was broken, half of the face plate missing to reveal a battle worn face with yellow eyes and shark-like teeth.

And for some reason, her heart skipped a beat inside her chest. Something that had not happened for a very, very long time.

At the same time, when Whiskey Foxtrot’s gaze wandered over to Deande, he fumbled with his weapon, nearly dropping it. He played it off, fixing his posture and moving his sight elsewhere.

Deande approached him, pushing her thoughts away and adapting a kind smile. “Hello and welcome to Nova and the Battleborn. I’m Deande.” She stuck out her hand for whatever form of greeting he had in store - she assumed some sort of handshake.

The Spymistress was very surprised when Whiskey Foxtrot - the big, bad, defective killing machine - grasped her hand gently and brought it to his lips for a short touch before carefully releasing it back in her care. 

“Miss Deande,” he referred to her in a gruff voice. The use of ‘Miss’ in front of her name did not go unnoticed. “The name is Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, but leave out the Tango - I don’t like to dance.” He was giving her a lopsided smile now, completely opposite of the formality he had just displayed, and it looked ravishing on him.

“I-” Deande gave a diplomatic cough to cover her near-gape. She felt the skin of her next grow warm, and willed it not to show. “I’m sure it will be a pleasure working with you.”

“I’m pretty sure the pleasure will be all mine.”

Oh dear.


	3. Best of Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE WE GO
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Deande was used to staying up late. Her former job as a Spymistress meant she had to be alert at all hours. So it wasn’t uncommon for her to be up and about Nova in the dead of night. Sometimes she would meet other people on her wanderings - either of the AIs they had aboard, Rath, Miko, ect, but more often than not she was alone.

She was more than okay with that. It gave her time to think; precious moments when the universe was teetering on the edge of oblivion. The quiet of the night almost gave her a feeling of tranquility. Almost. It was hard to escape the heavy feeling of impending doom.

The Spymistress had been so caught up in her own thoughts that she didn’t noticed the sound of approaching footsteps. She turned the corner and bodily slammed into someone, nearly knocking her off her feet.

“Oh!” She exclaimed. “I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention-” Deande froze when she saw who it was. Whiskey Foxtrot was looking down at her with much the same surprise as she felt.

Seeming to break out of some form of trance, Whiskey shook is head. “Nah, was my fault. Shoulda been watchin’ where I was goin’. You okay?”

They hadn’t seen much of each other over the week since the Rogues had arrived. Deande was always needed elsewhere, it seemed, and Whiskey had missions to go on and Varelsi to kill.

Deande gave him a small smile, allowing her eyes to trail over his unclothed chest for just a split second. “It’ll take a lot more than a bump to bring me down, even from someone as impressive as yourself.”

That caused Whiskey to start, his pupiless eye flashing, flicking over her form in a quick once-over. His mouth curled into a lopsided smile, showing off wickedly pointed teeth. 

“I’ll take your word for it. So what's a proper pretty lady like yourself doing wandering around Nova this late?”

Pretty. He just called her pretty. This should have come to no surprise to Deande - plenty of men had called her more - but for some reason she cared more when he said it.

“I - uh -”

Whiskey let out a huff of laughter, and Deande’s stomach flipped.

“Restless huh?” he quired.

“Yes.” She responded, finally finding her voice. “The quiet allows me to think. Screaming and gunfire hardly allows one to descend into deep thought. What about you?”

Foxtrot shrugged. “Restless. You can take the man out of battle, but you can’t take the battle out of the man.”

Deande nodded. She understood.

“I was actually thinkin’ about going down to the training rooms. If you're not busy or I’m not interrupting your personal time...I heard you were pretty good with those war fans.” He gestured to where her fans were holstered on her hip.

He wanted to spar? She looked him over again - he was leaning coolly against the wall now, awaiting her response. Or, at least, that was what he was trying to portray; the Spymistress could see the slight nervousness bubbling just underneath the surface in the tenseness of his shoulders and the tapping of his fingers on his thigh.

She smiled in response. “I don’t see why not. Melee only though - I realize that only puts you at a slight disadvantage.”

Whiskey tapped the knife at his side. “I’d hardly call it that.”

“Good, then you're on. Best of three.”

He smirked. “Let's do this thing.”


	4. All Units Be Advised: This Chapter is Really Cute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really had a lot of fun writing this guys. I hope you are enjoying it too!

It was a tie, as it would continue to be for the next couple of weeks; exhaustion would usually force their spar to a halt, a combination of lost sleep and exertion. Outside of their late night spars, Deande found herself spending more and more of her free time with Whiskey Foxtrot. The late night spars helped clear her head and she found herself chatting with the man more often than fighting. He had plenty of tales to tell, as did she - it's not like she had to keep anything a secret anymore, and it felt good to talk to someone about something that wasn’t a hair-brained scheme to prevent the end of the universe.

Even so, that was her day job now, and it was starting to take its toll. Herself, Kleese, Ghalt, Melka, Montana, and Reyna had been hard at work planning when and where to strike, who to assist, and how to manage what little resources they had. Deande had also been running interference under the table, cashing in favors and doing covert ops to make sure they stayed under the radar and out of harm's way. 

It was exhausting, and although Deande could survive on little to no sleep, even this was pushing her limits.

It was well past the rest time when she got back from one of her covert ops, boarding Nova with dragging feet. Even the AI noticed, and spoke to her in a lowered voice.

“Deande, you don’t look so hot.”

The Spymistress waved her off. “I’m fine Nova. The mission is complete and that is what really counts.”

“Oh yeah, nothing but the mission. Mhm. Personal health is totally not a priority here at all. You know, you are probably the most hypocritical person on this ship, and that's saying a lot.”

Deande groaned. “Nova please.”

“No, no, I’ll leave you to it. God forbid you accidentally fling yourself out of an airlock because you were sleep deprived.”

“Nova.”

The AI was quiet once more.

The Jennerit dragged herself through the hall, doing her best to not use the wall to keep herself up. Every muscle in her body burned, every bone ached. Her sight swam in front of her eyes and her head felt like it was filled with fuzz. She knew she desperately needed to rest, but there was just so much to do if they were going to pull off saving the last star. It was so much to handle - some might say too much. But with the right people in the right places - and knives in the right backs - she knew they could pull it off.

Or, at least she hoped they could.

“You know, I would say you looked like shit, but thats just never been the case with you.”

The gruff voice was familiar and Deande looked up from where she was leaning against the wall. 

Of course it would be Whiskey Foxtrot. Of course.

Regardless, she gave him a weary smile. “Whiskey. You’re up later than usual.”

“You been keeping tabs on me?”

“Hardly. Just an observation I’ve had since we started our late night sparring.”

“Never said I minded.” He approached, his clunky boots scoffing across the floor. Deande wasn’t really looking at him. When she could keep her eyes open, she couldn’t focus on anything very well.

Foxtrot was close enough that she could feel his presence - a slight heat given off by his being, accompanied by a whiff of gunpowder and musk. It was...nice. Familiar. Him.

“You need sleep.” he said. It was softer than he usually spoke, concern lacing his words. “You can’t keep running this show and do whatever Spymistress-y side job you got going on here and not take time to sleep and eat ‘n stuff. Shits not good for you and we need you in top shape.”

Deande gave a huff. “This is part of my job. This is what I’m in tip top shape to do - save the universe one backstab at a time. I’ll be fine.” She pushed herself off of the wall to stand proud, but wobbled. Whiskey Foxtrot steadied her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Yeah. Top shape. Can you even see me right now? I’m pretty sure your eyes are closed.”

“Are not.” They were.

“Are you injured?” 

That peaked Deande’s interest enough to pop an eye open. “No. Why?”

In a flurry of movement, the Spymistress suddenly found herself being lifted off of her feet. Her abdomen met the hard muscle of Whiskey’s shoulder as she was unceremoniously thrown over it. She let out a whoop of surprise, hands scrabbling at the man’s back for some kind of stability. 

“Whiskey!” She shouted incredulously, struggling in the man’s grasp. He just laughed.

“All units be advised - Miss Deande is going to get some sleep, whether she wants to or not!”

Honestly, she could have fought him - as tired as she was, she was plenty capable of fighting back. But she didn’t. After a half-hearted struggle, she slumped over on him. He wasn’t doing anything uncouth - his hands were all in safe places and holding her steady so she didn’t fall off as he moved through Nova’s halls. It was a tad uncomfortable positioning, but over all...nice. He was warm, and the smell of him made her feel strangely safe. Any other time, she would have taken warning with that, but for right now she enjoyed it. They were heading towards her room, she knew. Whiskey had stopped by only a scant few times, but he knew where it was. It was enough reassurance for her, so Deande finally allowed herself to be pulled into the blessed darkness of sleep.

Whiskey Foxtrot didn’t notice until they got to her room door.

He held her just a bit tighter, knowing that she couldn’t really catch herself if she were about to fall in her current state. He called up Nova to open the door, which the AI did without fuss. Using careful steps as to not jostle the Spymistress too much, Whiskey gingerly set her down on her bed.

Well, he guessed she could sleep in her current attire, minus the shoes, so he took those off and then readjusted her so that she was cuddled up under her blankets. Taking a step back, Whiskey looked over his work.

She was beautiful. With her little button nose and painted pouted lips. With her subtle kindness and disguised honor. The way she fought with her war fans; the way she looked when she laughed at something he had said.

The way she looked now, tranquil as she slept, even if he knew she was dreaming about ways to save all that she cared about.

Whiskey Foxtrot shook his head. He shouldn’t be doing this. Not here. Not like this. It wasn’t polite to stay in a lady’s room while she was sleeping. He’d write about it later in his diary.

Without further pause, Whiskey turned out the bedside light and left the darkened room. Nova closed and locked the door behind him.


	5. Handsome..?

Whiskey slammed his back against the wall. Shots ricocheted off of the metal structure with sharp pings - shots that would have perforated him.

“Stupid robots.” He muttered under his breath. The defective clone unloaded a tri-burst blindly behind the wall. “Stupid crazy sentient AIs.” Reload. Repeat. Something made a gurgling death sound and Whiskey allowed himself a huff of satisfaction as he ducked back from yet more lasers.

The Battleborn were attempting to stop ISIC, a psychopathic sentient AL, from undoing the universe with something he called ‘The Algorithim’. It was going less like they had planned and more like a complete cluster fuck. Getting to the machine was proving to be more difficult than they had anticipated - which was kind of silly since he lived in a minion making factory. Of course they were going to be endlessly swarmed with death robots.

Currently Whiskey Foxtrot was alone behind enemy lines. He had sworn Benedict had followed him to back him up, but the bird always was...ug...flightly.

And things were not looking good.

Palming a sticky bomb, Whiskey tossed it around the corner.

It stuck right dead center on the chest of a MX Elite that was within melee distance.

The bomb went off, taking a good chunk of the bot’s armor, but that just made it mad (if it could even feel such a thing). Using one ridiculously oversized hand, it grabbed the defective clone’s head and raised him off of the ground.

Shit.

“Whiskey Foxtrot requesting bac-” His sentence was interrupted as the robot smashed his head into the wall. Once, twice, three times - he was starting to lose consciousness, blood pouring from the flesh under his helmet. His ears were ringing and the world - or what little of it he could see beyond the sudden, prevailing darkness - was spinning.

Then he was dropped and hit the ground hard, like a stone. He decided, against whatever screaming survivalist voice in his head told him, that laying there would be the best decision for the time being. He could pretend he was dead - hope that the threat of the other Battleborn was enough to draw them away and give him time to recover. And he needed time to recover - his head pounded, his body ached. Whiskey was surprised he was thinking at all and not some brain dead vegetable leaking vitae onto the ground. 

Guess that helmet had come in handy for something.

Something grabbed his shoulder and, despite his grievous injuries, instinct kicked it. He grabbed the offending hand in a bone crushing grip.

“Ow.” Responded a familiar voice. Immediately he released his grip and tried to get a good look at his companion.

“Deande?” he slurred. Lifting his head sent the world whirling, so he laid back down.

“Shh. Quiet.” He felt her wrap her arms around his shoulder and pull him. He assumed she had a safe place in mind. A moment later she uncloaked and helped him sit up against a wall.

“How many finger am I holding up?” she asked. Honestly the only reason he knew it had been her was because of her voice. To his addled vision she just looked like a blonde, grey, and red blob.

“A number.” was what he answered. She tsked.

When she leaned in, fingers ghosting over his face and edge of his helm, the first thing he noticed was that her skin felt cool against his. The second was that she had changed her perfume to something more floral. It mixed better with her natural odor and the heavy scent of carnage that hung in the air.

“Is it alright if I slip your helmet off? I want to assess the damage.”

Whiskey gave a drunken smile. “You can take whatever you want off of me, Miss Deande.”

He couldn’t see it, but he knew he was smiling. She always did when he flirted with her, even if she thought it in jest.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He felt her gingerly removed the helmet from his face, making sure that the jagged edges didn’t catch or scratch. The spymistress hissed when she saw the damage.

“Well, it could have been worse. Here - this will make it better.” He felt something sharp press into his neck - one of those UPR health vials he assumed. It tingled a bit, and the feeling started to spread.

“Nah, that's just my normal face.” he joked.

“I think you have a very handsome face.” 

She what?

“Whoa, must have got hit harder than I thought. I thought you said I was handsome.”

Whiskey couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him as softly - as carefully - as she did. Deande caressed her fingers over the rough skin of his face, trailing a thumb under his third eye to wipe away the blood. He inhaled slightly at the intimacy of it.

“You are.” she breathed.

Suddenly Whiskey Foxtrot felt very warm.

“I - uh,” He hoped his blush didn’t show. It felt hot and uncomfortable on his skin. “Thank you. I -um, appreciate the compliment.”

His vision returning to him, he saw her lean back, a smile gracing her face.

“I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.”

Oh shit.


	6. Toby Gives Good Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly this was never supposed to get this long?
> 
> But?
> 
> Here we are??
> 
> Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy :D

He could do this.

Whiskey Foxtrot paced the room that he shared with the other Rogues. Currently, the only one here was Toby, but he was too busy tinkering with Berg to notice the defective clone trooper burning a hole in the floor.

It was simple right? People asked people out all the time. It wasn’t a huge deal. Ask Miss Deande out and, if she says yes, make her a nice meal and talk about stuff. That's how dates worked right?

What if that was not how the Jennerit did it? They had weird, spooky customs for everything else, he assumed courting was also on the list. He wanted to do right by her.

It was safe to say that Whiskey Foxtrot was very smitten with Miss Deande. Very, very smitten. It had gotten very hard to be around her and not find an excuse to brush up against her, or make her smile. Their sparring matches left him breathless in a way that had nothing to do with exerting himself. He remembered the cool of her touch and the softness of her words and he found himself thinking of them constantly. He found Deande on his mind more often than not, actually.

So it was only natural that he try to take the next step, right?

Right?

Foxtrot sunk down onto his cot, putting his head in his hands.

Deande was like a waltz. She was beauty and grace and decorum.

And him?

Well, he didn’t dance.

“You okay there ‘Trot? You don’t look so good.” Toby tapped a wing against his calf. The soldier looked down at him.

Now he knew he was desperate.

“You know anything about...about dating?” Whiskey spat more than asked, as if he had to force the words out of his throat.

Toby’s entire being lit up and he let out a small gasp. “Are you thinking about dating someone, Whiskey? Who?”

Whiskey let out a defeated sigh. “Miss Deande.”

Toby let out what could only be described as a squeal. “You two would be so cute together! So what's the hold up? Are you afraid she's going to reject you?”

Was he? Kind of. He didn’t really want to ruin what friendship that had, but he figured if things progressed the way they were the term wouldn’t really be ‘friendship’ so much as it would be ‘unrequited pinning’. 

That wasn't quite it either, though, and he voiced as much to Toby.

“I just feel like...maybe she deserves better. Like a Jennerit warrior and not some defective Mike clone. I don’t think I could give her what she wants.”

Toby put his wings on his hips. “No, no ‘Trot! You’re looking at this all wrong! First of all, I don’t think you need to give Miss Deande anything; I’m pretty sure she’ll take what she wants. And secondly, don’t you think that is a decision Miss Deande should make? You two do spend an awful lot of time together, and it takes two to tango, if you get my drift.” Toby waggled his eyebrows, but stopped when he saw the glare that Whiskey shot him. He awkwardly coughed. “What I mean is, I don’t think Deande would be as close to you if she just thought you were some defective Mike clone.”

That...was true, Whiskey admitted. He was sure there were other people she could be hanging out with other than him. Like...any of the other Jennerits. Or Ghalt. Or Deande could have just spent more time on the apparently endless amount of missions she had. Thinking about it, it was startling that she made time for him at all.

But she did, and Whiskey Foxtrot took that as a good sign.

“What about...you know, the whole Jennerit thing?” he asked. Toby frowned and tsked.

“What about it? Whiskey, I thought you were better than to bring race into this. I’m very disappointed.”

Whiskey growled. “No, not like that! They just have some weird customs, okay? What if I...I don’t know, do something wrong or screw it up?”

Toby’s expression lightened up, and he shrugged.

“Well, I don’t know anything about their customs, but I do know you could always ask for help. If you're too nervous to ask Deande, you could ask any of the other Jennerit.”

The clone trooper grimaced. The aviant had the audacity to laugh.

“Well, if that doesn’t work for you, then you could always just wing it. But if you don’t actually ask her out, you’ll never get an answer one way or the other.”

Foxtrot sat on the information for a bit, fingers tapping the sides of his thighs. Finally he spoke again.

“Thanks Toby. You were really insightful and I appreciate your friendship and your advice.”

“No problem ‘Trot. What are bros for?”

Whiskey got down off the bunk to give the bird a manly one armed hug, which Toby reciprocated . 

“You got a plan?” he asked.

Whiskey Foxtrot shrugged. “Something like that.”


	7. The One Where I Try Not To Misspell Rath's Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this, oh my goodness. Rath is my jam.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for all your kudos and comments! Were almost to the end of this fic; only about two more chapter to go (give or take)
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy

Whiskey Foxtrot knocked lightly on Rath’s door. Part of him hoped the swordsman just wasn’t in. Part of his hoped he was.

There were only a handful of people Whiskey figured he could ask about Jennerit courting customs; the Jennerit he had access to. And out of those there were even fewer.

Deande was a no for obvious reasons.

Attikus was out. He was a thrall servant before the rebellion. He probably had never been exposed to much of the Jennerit culture other that what had to do with tasks. His tasks including thrall rebellion and usurpation of the Jennerit culture.

Ambra was...a choice. Maybe not a wise choice, but out of all the Jennerit she probably knew the most. Being a high priestess and of noble blood, she would have had the most experience...but she was also crazy. And he wouldn’t put it past her to go behind his back and speak to Deande about it. Maybe nothing bad, but he would still like the conversation to stay private.

The last choice was Rath. He had been a royal guard, but Whiskey was sure he was no stranger to relationships. And even if he was, he had to have been educated in such things. Rath was also withdrawn and private - something that Foxtrot admired more than admonished - but knew it would make the conversation awkward. 

Which was why he kind of half hoped he wasn’t there.

That little part of him died when the door opened and Rath raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the clone trooper.

“Whiskey.” he said in greeting.

“Rath.” Whiskey replied.

There was a long moment of silence.

“Do you want to explain to me why you standing outside my door?” Rath asked, clearly already tired of the conversation. Whiskey Foxtrot shifted nervously under his gaze.

“I need your help.” he said. Rath sighed.

“I’m not making another sword -”

“It's not that, I promise. I need some information.” 

Rath looked expectantly for Whiskey to continue. When the clone didn’t he prodded again.

“Information on...what?”

Whiskey struggled to articulate himself. “How...how do Jennerit...dating customs...work?”

Rath stared unblinkingly at Whiskey Foxtrot in a way that made the clone wish the ground could swallow him up.

“This is about Deande, isn’t it?” Rath finally said.

“Uh, yeah. How’d you guess?”

The swordsman didn’t answer, just moved aside and gestured into his room. 

Whiskey hesitated for a moment. He could still run. There was time.

Instead, he entered, giving Rath a grateful nod.

The room was darkly decorated but rather well lit. It was spartan in nature - simple, neat, clean, if not a little sparse - done up deep colors; midnight blues, wines, royals purples and the like. What few aesthetic decoration Rath did have looked like they were smuggled out of his homeworld. A small, ancient looking shrine of worship, a few archaic blades, some large leather (or at least he hoped it was leather) bound tomes. Looking rather out of place amidst it all was his gear loadout, sitting across from the bed on a table all of its own, and a picture frame on the bedstand. In the picture Rath was crammed in between Montana and Benedict; despite the swordsman’s scowl, they looked like they were having a good time.

Rath let Whiskey get his bearings before he cut to the chase.

“You're doing it all wrong.”

Whiskey looked down at himself, lifting his arms up slightly. “Really? I thought the crazed defective clone thing was really working for me. Made me look like kind of a badass, you know?”

The ex-royal guard let out a growl. “No, no! I mean with Deande!”

Whiskey Foxtrot put his hands down, brow furrowing under his helm. “Somehow, that may be more insulting.”

Rath, ever suffering, pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh.

“Listen, you and Denade...you’ve hit things off pretty good, in all honesty. Up until now you, you’ve been doing all the right things.”

Whiskey was starting to get a strange feeling in his gut. “How do you know what me and Deande have been up to?”

Wrath gave him a blank look. “We’re Jennerit, Foxtrot. When we aren't keeping an eye on our own, we are furiously gossiping. Do you want my advice or not?”

Although the prospect of being talked about - and probably watched - unnerved Whiskey more than a little, he did require Wrath’s aid.

“Alright.” The clone trooper consented. “Please don’t watch us though; that's really creepy.”

The swordsman scoffed. “I’ve been playing interference for you and Deande for weeks now. Ambra and Attikus are on the verge of setting me up a pyre.” Wrath smirked. “It’s almost worth it just to see Caldarius pretend not to be interested.”

Whiskey honestly wished he never knew any of this. He liked it better when he was ignorant of how most of the Jennerit court was trying to nose their way into his relationship. He was pretty sure he couldn’t face them the same way and that was a shame; Attikus was a awesome philosophical debate partner.

Rath saw the conflicted look on the ex-Mike clone and waved him off. “But, I digress. You are succeeding where many, many, many men have failed. Jennerit men. Jennerit men who followed the Jennerit courting customs. Are you following me so far?”

Not really. “Not really.”

Rath spared a glance at the ceiling, blowing air through his nose in an attempt to stall the waning of his patience. “I admire that you came to me to ask for advice. You’ve put a lot of thought into how you wanted to go about asking Deande for a chance at a romantic relationship. I admire that you wanted to go traditionally for her.” He took a breath. “My advice? Don’t.”

Foxtrot paused a moment. “What?”

“Don’t do the Jennerit courting customs. You’d honestly just be better off doing what you’re doing now.”

“Why?”

“Because the Jennerit courting customs are stupid and complicated, that's why. What you have with Deande is more than just an arranged bloodbond; treat it as such. Don’t let your relationship be bound by the rules of an Empire where real love is shoved to the sidelines in lieu of political advancement.”

Ah. That was a pretty good reason. 

“So...what should I do?” Whiskey sat heavily on the bed, running a hand over what little of his face was showing. He was, essentially, back at square one. 

Wrath sat down next to him, leaving a good half a foot between them. “Well, that's for you to decide. You’ve been doing well so far; I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

There was a long moment of silence. It wasn’t as awkward as Whiskey Foxtrot thought it would be.

“So, why were you running interference for me and Deande?” he asked. Rath shifted.

“Deande is a old friend. I do not have many genuine friends, but she is among their ranks.” Rath leaned forward, steepling his hands together. “I don’t think I have to warn you the consequences of hurting her?”

He didn’t.

“Good.” Responded Rath. “Are we done here?”

“Not quite.” Whiskey perked up. “Do the Jennerit people have any culinary aversions?” 

Rath looked at the man like he had grown a second head.

“Culinary...? Why?”

“Well, I was thinking about making her dinner as our first date. If she says yes, that it.”

“You can cook?” Rath looked like he didn’t believe him.

“Yeah. I was thinking steak tartare, steamed mixed veggies, a garden salad, and creme brulee to follow up.”

Whiskey Foxtort had never seen Rath look like a gaping fish. It wasn’t a very flattering look on the usually serious man.

“You can cook all that?”

“Sure. I was a chef for years while I was on the run from the Mikes.”

“Where are you even going to acquire the ingredients?”

“I’m a Rogue. With chef connections. I already have the ingredients.” 

The swordsman squinted at him for a moment, before shooing him away. “Go. Go now. Woo Deande. You probably never needed my help.”

Whiskey was forced off of the bed and towards the door. “Wait! You didn’t answer my question.”

Rath keeps pushing. “No we don’t. She likes wine, but make sure she doesn’t drink too much; and she will try.”

“Is that all?” Whiskey is back in the hallway.

“Yes! For Lenore’s sake, go already! You’ll be fine!”

“Thank you Rath! I appreciate our friendship!”

“Your welcome!”

The door is slammed in Whiskey Foxtrot’s face.

And he felt pretty good about it.


	8. Spar-room Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA you guys thought this was dead huh? 
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoy this. I dont write near as much romance as I would like to, becasue I had so much fun with this. I hope it turned out alright. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me so far guys! We're almost done!

Whiskey Foxtrot stood outside yet another door. This one was a lot scarier than Rath’s. 

This one was Deande’s. 

He had never...The Mikes had been very good at making clones. Clones that were soldiers; soldier meant to fight in a war that they couldn’t possibly hope to win. The Mikes hadn’t taught him things like etiquette or table manners or how to treat people you were interested in romantically. That was stuff that Whiskey had had to figure out on his own. 

It wasn’t that he had never asked out someone before; other women, other guys, people who were somewhere in between, or not even on the spectrum. Deande was...she was different though. She was a different caliber of romance and, much like bullets, that meant he had to use a different type of gun to fit the situation. 

Whiskey Foxtrot took a deep breath. He could do this. He was Whiskey fucking Foxtrot. He could -

“Whomever is outside my door, could you please knock at least? Unless you’re here to kill me, in which case please throw yourself out the airlock down the hall and to the left as a form of mercy so I don’t have to bother with dealing with you myself. I will be far less merciful.”

Whiskey, seeing no other alternative now that Deande knew he was here, knocked. 

The door slid open and revealed the spymistress leaning coolly against the doorframe, arms crossed, but hands twitching to grasp at the war fans at her side.

Then she saw it was him, and the tenseness eased from her form and a smile graced her painted lips. 

Maybe Toby had been right after all. About the whole ‘Deande liking him’ thing.

There were a long pause between the two of them before Whiskey let out an awkward cough.

“Uh, Hi.” Smooth. 

“Hello.” She responded. “Did you have a reason for stopping by? Or did you just want to spar?”

This was it! This was his opening! All he had to do was ask ‘Deande, would you like to have dinner with me?’ Or maybe something a littler more swave, like ‘Hey, you, me, dinner?’ Easy. She had set him up for -

“Sparring sounds nice.” Answered his panic addled mouth before his brain could catch up. Mentally, Whiskey Foxtrot groaned. 

“Sounds good. I’ll just grab my practice fans, give me a moment.”

Deande retreated back into the room and the ex-Mike clone resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall.

Well, okay, first opportunity lost, but there was always later, right?

...Yeah, later in a universe where every bit of time allotted to them is either borrowed or stolen and everything they know and love could end at literally any moment.

But he also knew that he couldn’t force it either. The natural time would come - if not now, then later. If later was after the end of all things, then he wouldn’t be alive to mourn the loss anyways.

He would just really like to feel her hand in his before that happened, if he could help it.

Deande came back, wooden-bladed fans in place of her lethal ones. She gave him a once over.

“Are you alright Whiskey? Have you got something on your mind?”

He shook himself. Not now; later. Spar now and blow off some steam.

Whiskey shrugged. “Nah, just getting a little stir crazy. Why, you got something you want to talk about?”

They started down the hallway to the training room. All the talk was simple really; exchanging pleasantries, Deande mentioning her last mission, a light flirt here or there. They were good at the back and forth, Whiskey found. It was nice. Solid.

He had kinda of blown this out of proportion...hadn’t he? This was Deande he was dealing with here. He had been asking for advice and over thinking things, when in the end...well they were close friends. Whiskey probably just should have gone with his own plan, no matter how hairbrained or strange it had seemed.

Ah well, there was time (hopefully) to go back to the drawing board later.

The Sparing room was sleek, dark (obviously of Jennerit design), and sparse. There were wooden practice weapons that lined the walls and a few doors that lead to bathrooms. The place was an open arena waiting for a fight. 

Whiskey made a beeline for the knife section, taking down his favorite and flipping it to test the weight. 

“Aw yeah. Feels good.” He said giving a few practise slashes. Deande smiled.

“Shall we warm up, or get right to it then?” She asked. Foxtrot shot her a smirk.

“We’ll just get right into it. Not sure I would need a warm-up, what with you already being the hottest thing in the room.”

It's not often that he gets to see Deande surprised, but he does here. Her eyebrows shoot up to reach her hairline and her eyes widen, before she slips into a full bellied laugh. Delicate hands try to cover her face and she even lets out a snort or two as she giggles.

And all Whiskey can do is stand there and stare. He wishes, for once, that he could have been spawned with a better sense for poetry or flowery language, because he's certain there had to be words that described Deande that weren’t ‘holyshit thats super fuck’n adorable fuck.’

Once she had composed herself, Deande set herself into a fighting stance, still smiling.

“Alright. Let's dance.”

The speed at which she lunged almost took Whiskey Foxtrot off guard - almost. He parried one of her war fans just in time with his knife and shoved her back. He returned her smile, albeit his a little more feral and with plenty more teeth.

“Alright, if that's how you want to play it!”

They met again, wooden weapons letting out a _clack_ that echoed through the room. Deande tried at strike from the left, only to be blocked when Whiskey’s palm connected with the inside of her wrist. She recovered gracefully - when does she not? - leaping back so that the two partners could circle each other, predator vs predator.

This time, Foxtrot took the initiative.

He made for a rush, but pulled to the right at the last second. Deande called the bluff a little too late. She dodged it narrowly, blocking Whiskey’s rapid fire strikes with her own sweeping blades.

This is how her wanted her; on the defensive. If Deande got to you unawares, you were toast. Her ability to syphon life out of her enemies when she drew blood made her a powerful and survivable offensive asset. Get her on the defense though- make her use her time and effort into not getting hit, than hitting - and you had her on the ropes. Normally in a real fight, this is where Deande’s little escape plan would come in, but not here. Here she had to work it out on her own.

It was a shame Whiskey had forgotten about the uppercut.

The flat of the wooden blade connected with the bottom on his chin so hard he could feel his jaw vibrate. It nearly knocked him off of his feet. He staggered, but recovered from her surprised assault - too late. Deande was on his with a sweeping arc of her fan, one that the ex-Mike clone barely had time to sidestep. The next one he caught mid-swing, wrapping his gnarled hand neatly around her thin wrist. He twisted it, intent on making the spymistress drop one of her weapons, but instead she spun with it, twirling like they were ballroom dancing rather than fighting. She used the spin to gain momentum, angling her fan for his throat. He brought up his blade to block - _twack!_ \- and Deande hooked a foot around the back to his ankle and shoved her weight into him.

Down went Whiskey Foxtrot, but he took Deande with him.

Both of them were on the ground, Deande over Whiskey, one blade at his throat while the other hand - fanless, somewhere amidst the fall - was holding Whiskey Foxtrot’s wrist above his head. Foxtrot’s blade was also at her throat. He was on his back, the spymistress on her knees above him, with one of his leg tucked firmly between them so he would struggle less.

They were panting, chests barely touching with each expansion of the lungs. Their faces were close enough that some of Deande’s hair had come undone and was tickling his cheek.

There were...literally thousands of things he wanted to say. Things that would make her laugh. Things that would make her blush. He wanted his brain to _work dammit_ and _say something_ but he was just pinned here in this moment, drowning in something that was essentially her.

“Hey,” Deande said after, what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a matter of seconds. “Do you, uh, want to go and do something sometime? With just the two of us? Together?”

Whiskey froze. “Like...like a date?” He asked dumbly.

“I - well, yes, I was hoping so.” She was blushing - or as close an approximation as she could get. A light pink was spreading to the tips her her ears.

Well, that solved a couple of things. Whiskey smiled.

“Dinner.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll make you dinner. Just the two of us. That okay?”

She grinned, releasing the grip on his wrist and leaning back slightly. Both of them removed the practice weapons from the others throat. “Yes, actually. That sounds great.”

“Awesome.”

They avoided eye contact for a moment - whether it was because of the positioning or the awkward topic was anyone's guess - before Whiskey slowly reached for her hand. When he grabbed it, he was reminded of the first time they had met, when he had kissed it. Carefully, he slid his digits between hers, engulfing her hand completely. It felt...good. Secure. That good feeling you got from protecting stuff, even though Deande didn’t need protecting.

She was the one that closed the distance, painted lips stopping just centimeters from his. His breath hitched in his throat.

“Can I...?” Deande asked, and he could almost taste her words.

“Yes please.” Whiskey answered as he pulled off his helm. It clattered to the ground with a sound that would have been a loud, had either of the occupants of the space been listening to it

Deande smoothed her lips onto his, pressing lightly. Whiskey reciprocated as best he could, returning the light pressure carefully. In a bold move, the Rogue slipped his free hand up the back of her neck and laced his fingers through her hair. This gave him the leverage he needed to deepen the kiss, swallowing down Deande’s gasp. The hand that wasn’t tangled with Whiskey Foxtrot’s came up to cup his cheek, carefully trailing her fingertips over the broken skin and scars.

They only broke apart for air.

“Holy shit.” Whiskey murmured. He ran his thumb up and down the side of Deande’s neck. She leaned into his touch.

“Yeah.” She responded.

“So dinner?”

“Absolutely.”

“Pick you up at around nineteen hundred. You feeling casual or formal?”

“Which would you prefer?”

“Good question. I think formal.”

She smiled and it was dangerous. Her eyes flashed and her lips quirked and it made him want to kiss her all over again.

“I think you just want to see me all dressed up.”

“Damn right I do.”

Deande laughed. “Only if I also get to see you all gussied up. I think you would look quite handsome.”

Whiskey waggled his eyebrows - or where they would be, had he any. 

“Miss Deande, if I didn't know any better, I would think you were trying to seduce me.”

“Me? Never! I am a professional, I’ll have you know.” 

Her hand slipped out of his, reached over, and pinched his butt. Whiskey made the gruff approximation of a yelp. 

He mock gasped. “You devil!”

He shot her a crooked smirk, showing off razor teeth. He was just about to go in for round two - and from the look of things so was she - when Ghalt’s voice came over the ship’s intercom.

“All hands to bridge! We have an emergency!” 

Deande and Whiskey Foxtrot exchange looked.

“We’ll pick this up later.” She said.

“Definitely.” 

Then they both scrambled for the bridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am...such trash. Very trash.


End file.
